


No place like home

by Bitchard_ZK



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, John Watson - Freeform, Mycroft, Mycroft Holmes - Freeform, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Sweet Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 07:30:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5618722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bitchard_ZK/pseuds/Bitchard_ZK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mycroft moves out of the house, Sherlock notices Christmas is different without him.</p><p>Inspired by the song 'Home sweet home' by Helen Traubel.  A Christmas drabble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No place like home

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Sherlock fanfic. It's a Christmas inspired fanfic and can also be found on fanfiction.net under my writer's name Darth Dolus.
> 
> They are a bit out of character if you ask me, but I hope you will enjoy it nonetheless!

The room glistened in the lights of multicolored lit Christmas tree that stood proudly in the middle of the living room. All unnecessary commercial nonsense it was, Christmas. Holidays in general were nothing but a scam to earn more money from the people. The fire cracked and sizzled as it radiated its warmth in the harsh winter cold. The snow outside kept coming down from the dark English skies. It almost reminded him of the opening scene of Lady and the Tramp, the only thing missing was the operatic voice singing a Christmas song and carriages riding past mansions.

Sherlock sat in front of the fireplace, staring into the fire as it bent and danced around in the dimly lit living room. Father and mother were in the kitchen with his grandparents, Mycroft- was late. It was their first Christmas since Mycroft left the house to live on his own. A good riddance it was, no Mycroft around. One pest less. His mother had blubbered over it all year long, their father not so much. Sherlock himself was not that sentimental.

But somewhere inside his heart he felt the gnawing sensation something was missing. As the three of them sat around the kitchen table after having waited for an additional two hours past the originally agreed on time, Sherlock sometimes found himself mentally preparing comebacks for insults that weren't made. He stared to the left- where he always sat- and was simply met with emptiness- an emptiness that had never been there before.

The snow began to pile up higher outside as father and mother did the dishes. Sherlock sat at the kitchen table with his grandparents, writing some new ideas that had popped into his head a minute ago. But as he continued writing, he noticed his thoughts began to stray elsewhere. For once he didn't nag, he didn't rant- he simply- sat there and was silent. After a while his mother and father began to look just as defeated as he felt. They weren't like they usually were on Christmas eve, obnoxiously jolly and filled with Christmas spirit! They all knew why they felt like this, but none of them spoke their feelings out loud.

The evening began to come closer to ending, father had made an attempt to lift their spirits by unpacking presents. He even came up with the idiotic idea to let Sherlock read the names and hand out the gifts. It almost seemed to be like it always was- until in a blind fit of uncharacteristic joy, Sherlock took the next present and read out loud- without thinking. . .

"Mycroft-"

He fell silence immediately after having uttered the name of his personal plague and poltergeist. However, on this specific night he- he didn't feel annoyed. . . He felt oddly- depressed. His grandparents seemed to pick up on this, for they began to hurry the next present, moving past Sherlock to present him with a gift for him instead. But it didn't take a brilliant mind like his own to deduce that no present was going to lift his spirit now.

"I'm sure he has got a very good reason for not being here. No need to be sad lad". His grandfather had said as he pat his shoulder and handed his mother the bowls for the Christmas pudding. But words fell on deaf ears that night.

"He's awfully late isn't he? Shouldn't he have arrived by now? " John Watson fretted as he paced back and forth in the living room. Sherlock sat in front of the fireplace, staring into the flames as he entered a memory. It was exactly like that night- safe for the constant rattling of John.

"He is a busy man John, he is an important man for the governmen-" Mother was unable to finish her sentence, for Sherlock interrupted her with his crude version of the reality.

"Mycroft is the British government and he is not late. He is not coming." With that being said he plastered a fake smile on his face and hushed his parents, and John, to move to the tree for the annual unwrapping.

"Sherlock- why don't you hand out the presents?"

Whether it was the music, Helen Traubel on infinite loop, or the considerable amount of consumed alcohol that now coursed through his veins, Sherlock agreed to this and moved to the tree to present the first gift .

"To, John Watson, from- Mister and Misses Holmes."

He placed the gift in his friend's hands and smiled a sardonic smile.

"It's a pair of socks, they match the set of pants and the jammies they got for you."

The sound of his mother protesting- and his father laughing, filled the room along with John Watson's confused uttering. It was just like that night- all was well, all was well. . . Yet whenever he looked over to his left- there was the gnawing sensation something was missing. They drank, unwrapped packages, some were- even to the everlastingly pessimistic Sherlock- amusing even and the night was indeed a splendid example of how Christmas ought to be celebrated: with lots of laughter and sarcastic insults.

The same song began to play, "Home sweet home", by Helen Traubel. A favorite of his now late grandfather and grandmother, from his mother's side. All the packages were now unwrapped and the tree shone it's multicolored lights brightly- but discreetly. It all fit together. The lights, the candles. Perhaps it was the reasonable amount of alcohol he consumed that made him this sentimental, but all Sherlock could deduce was how awfully much this all reminded him of the opening scene of Lady and the Vagabond. Snow had piled up outside and the living room was empty. Everyone had gone to bed so far, only Sherlock had remained. Even Watson had taken his leave. Sherlock stared at the tree, admiring how much time his mother wasted on it. . . But somewhere deep down inside he also admired the effort she kept putting in everything each year to make Christmas special. Of course such a ludicrous thought was not to be spoken out loud. It wasn't until he felt a wetness on his cheek- and a knock on the door that he snapped out of his ridiculously sentimental thoughts.

"Sorry I'm late". Came the dry statement from Mycroft as he stood outside the door Sherlock had just opened. All he was met with was an emotionless- but slightly drunk face- from the curly-haired man.

"Was there a pie-clearance you had to attend? Surely it would have been a waste to throw all that food away". Sherlock bitterly remarked.

"As always, sharp of tongue brother mine, sharp of tongue". And with that he entered the house. It did not stir the rest of the attendants who were now fast asleep. The two sat in the living room for a while, commenting and discussing how terribly commercial Christmas was and how terribly capitalistic it was to indulge in a feast like this. However, a few drinks later they both came to the conclusion they wouldn't have wanted to miss their mother's Christmases in the past.

"I hated Christmas for a while". Sherlock confessed drunkenly. Mycroft frowned at this and turned to his brother to face him more properly.

"What an abhorrent thing to say. Who would ever want to miss Christmas!" The man replied, sarcasm dripping from his voice like the gravy had pooled around his mother's turkey.

"I mean it- Mycroft. There were years- that I really despised Christmas". He repeated. Mycroft was fazed with the comment- and clearly a tad bit confused.

"Do explain. You have always hated Christmas, just as much as I have." He added.

"No- it was different. I had a reason to hate it." Sherlock replied. "I hated it – because you weren't there anymore".

Mycroft was shocked at this revelation, as much as Sherlock may have drunk- this was an all new even for him.

"I do beg your pardon? I would have expected you to jump in delight at the occasion to see me leave the Christmas table!" He scoffed.

"I myself didn't understand it either- I would have given any reasonable amount of money to get you away. But ever since that year- when you didn't show up. . ." Sherlock stared down to the ground, obviously discomforted by the heartfelt conversation he was having with his arch nemesis.

"It made me realize. How much I would miss you –if you were no longer around". Sherlock brought his fist to his mouth, biting his knuckle in an intoxicated attempt to make his emotions vanish.

"Oh Sherlock, you know I was going to come back for Christmas next year. It was business, college. I simply couldn't make it. You know that too. Are you really still upset about that?" Mycroft chuckled- slightly uneasy with the newly discovered emotions Sherlock harbored.

"It was different Mycroft. You- it was the first time you weren't there. And tonight it felt exactly like that time. And- it made me realize. That I miss you". Sherlock was going to curse himself for this conversation the next morning.

"I need to write this down in my diary tomorrow. I believe you have finally done it. You've gone mad". Mycroft sighed. Sherlock hissed an insult as he began to dry his face, followed by a string of incoherent 'I'm not crying's and 'don't ever speak of this'ses. The latter merely opened his arms and pulled his 'tipsy' brother in for hug they never shared.

"Do you remember when I held you like this? When you were little?" Mycroft suddenly said as they passed, well over a hour, simply lying on the couch enjoying the same songs they heard every single year. Sherlock leaned against the older man as said man's arm laid draped over his shoulders.

"I hated it." Sherlock hissed.

"That's why you constantly came back to sleep in my bed". Mycroft chuckled bemusedly.

A silence broke out.

"Why did we grow apart I wonder." Mycroft muttered.

"Because you became the government and stopped being my brother". Sherlock huffed in reply.

"No- because you no longer allowed me to be your big brother. You know I worry about you-" Mycroft started.

"Constantly". Sherlock spoke in time with Mycroft, causing both grown men to chuckle.

Another long silence broke out- until, what Watson would have blogged as 'The Holmes Christmas miracle' happened.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock spoke, almost a whisper.

"Yes, brother mine?"

"I love you."

A smile appeared on Mycroft's face, one filled to the brim with emotion.

"I love you too Sherlock, and I always will." He replied, holding his still, little brother, a bit tighter.

"Merry Christmas Mycroft." Sherlock now smiled too.

"Merry Christmas brother mine.."

. . . .

"Speak to anyone of this and I will smother you in your sleep." Sherlock added hastily.

"Ditto."


End file.
